


Help, I'm Alive

by babbleface



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Budding Romance, F/M, Fluff, Romance if you squint, blood tw, happy at the end?, kastle - Freeform, kinda angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6441265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babbleface/pseuds/babbleface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Karen wakes up screaming he's there and she's grateful for it. Because more than anything, misery loves company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help, I'm Alive

**Author's Note:**

> idk, this is what i did instead of my final projects.

It had been easy. That was the scary part. Pointing the barrel the right way and squeezing the trigger took almost nothing at all.

 

Seeing the body; that was the hard part. Sleeping at night; that was almost impossible.

 

Karen woke up screaming for months afterwards. It got so bad that she went to the doctor to get sleeping pills. That just made it worse because the worst part of a nightmare is not being able to wake up.

Eventually Karen stopped sleeping all together.

Then one night, finally, she slowly drifted off on her couch, watching TV. And the next night the same thing happened, and the next, until finally she could sleep without the nightmares and she could wake up without screaming.

 

Then Grotto had come along and with him came the Punisher. And in a hail of bullets Karen is right back where she started.

 

Karen kept the .38 in her purse at all times. After everything was over, after the Blacksmith shot up her apartment, after Matt’s confession, after everything, Karen woke up screaming again, and again, and again. But it was only ever Wesley who haunted her dreams, dripping blood on her face, leaning over her, forcing a gun into her mouth. She always woke up right before he pulled the trigger.

Karen signed up for self-defence classes at a nearby community centre. Their teacher was a former Marine, and now teaches self defence lessons so that she can feed her two kids. When she found out that Karen had survived not one, but three of the “Punisher’s” shootings she clapped her on the back and told her the name of the gun range she was a member of. Karen drove out there twice a week too, just to stay sharp. She spends the rest of her time digging into the massive number of crime families that inhabit Hell’s Kitchen. More often then not the Punisher has already dealt out his specific brand of justice before Karen has the chance to run her story. She started leaving him notes in the classified section, in a vain hope that he read the Bulletin in his spare time. He doesn’t reply and Karen lost hope a long time ago that he would.

 

Until one day he does. The reply is short, attached to her classified ad, simply reading “OK - FC”. Karen practically sprinted to work. She holed herself up in her office all day, typing furiously, right up until her deadline. Then she sent the file off to Ellison with a triumphant jab at the send key. The story ran the next morning and by nightfall every mobster her story identified was dead. That night Karen went to bed feeling better than she had in a long time. She even thought that she might be able to sleep the whole night through.

 

She was wrong.

 

The nightmare, worse than usual, bore down on her until she couldn’t breathe. She was trapped in the dark warehouse with Wesley. The table and chairs were gone. It was just her and him and he had the gun this time. Blood dripped out of the bullet holes in his chest and stained his shirt. He talks to her, something out of the ordinary for her nightmare, but his voice is far off and muffled. Karen staggered back, away from him, heart in her throat, until her back collided with solid concrete. Wesley raised the gun and fired, one shot for every time she shot him and Karen’s own blood was suddenly spilling out over her hands.

She woke up crying, clawing at her blankets until she found her abdomen and was certain she wasn’t bleeding out for real. Residual pain from the nightmare shot through her body and her hands couldn’t seem to stop shaking and her desperate sobs wouldn’t stay in her throat. Karen couldn’t help but cry over Wesley for the hundredth time, burying her face in her knees and screaming until she has no air left in her lungs. When Karen was finished, when she couldn’t breathe, she finally lifted her head and wiped her face off on her sheets.

Then she noticed something was wrong.

The window was open and a man was silhouetted against the street lamp outside. Karen can’t get the scream out of her throat, can’t get her legs to work.

“Bad dreams?” 

The voice that rasped out of the darkness made her heart stutter and trip. Frank Castle is standing in her apartment, hands in his pockets, casual as you please, asking about her dreams.

“Frank, what - h-how did you get in here?” Karen scrambled up, nearly tripping over her tangled sheets. She didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, but she hoped it wasn’t very long.

“Your lock is busted,” Frank gestured at the window. Karen can feel the horrible sensation left behind by her nightmare starting to ebb away.

“What are you doing here?” 

“I got shot,” is all Frank said. He tromped off to her bathroom and switched on the light. Karen stood a moment longer, staring at the spot he used to be standing, and then followed him.

“You got shot? Go to a hospital.”

“You know that’s out of the question for me,” Frank said. He shrugged his jacket off and tugged his shirt over his head. Karen saw the bloody mess on his side, dripping down his scared skin. It looked like the bullet had only grazed him. He was covered in scars and bruises and bandages and stitches, every square inch of him.

“There’s a first aid kit under the sink,” Karen said. “Stitch yourself up and get out. I need to get some sleep if I’m going to make it through tomorrow.” 

“Yes Ma’am,” Frank said. He set about getting himself patched up and Karen went back to her bed. She crawled under her covers and wrapped herself up. Strangely, the presence of someone else in the apartment made her feel less panicked. She closed her eyes and sleep took her gently away.

 

When she woke up in the morning, her alarm clock screaming, Frank was gone. Her bathroom was spotless, her first aid kit was restocked and a little yellow sticky note was stuck to her window. 

“Thanks,” it read. “I fixed the lock.” 

 

The second time Frank dropped in unannounced he came in through the front door. Or Karen thought he did. He was just there, sitting in her living room, reading one of her books one day when Karen got home after a particularly frustrating day at work.

“Is this lock busted too?” she asked, kicking her shoes off.

“Nope.” 

He didn’t look up from the book.

“I don’t have anything to eat so I hope you didn’t come here for food.” 

“I didn’t come to eat,” Frank said.

“Then what?” 

Frank only shrugged and Karen felt irrational frustration rise up her gullet. She ground her teeth and glared at him. 

“Well you can’t stay. I’m not harbouring a fugitive,” she snapped.

“You ever read this thing?” Frank asked, ignoring her. He held up the book so she could see the cover. Karen couldn’t bite back her scoff. He’d picked up the only piece of classical literature in her apartment and the only one she’d never cracked open.

“ _Persuasion_? No, I’m not really an Austen fan.” 

“Huh.” 

Frank turned the page and continued reading.

“You can’t stay,” Karen repeated. He nodded and kept reading. Karen stomped to her bedroom to change out of her work clothes. Then she ordered Chinese takeout for one.

Karen ate on the couch, watching TV while Frank read quietly in the chair. Eventually he used a loose slip of paper to mark his page and left the book on the coffee table next to Karen’s takeout spread. She didn’t say a word as he left the apartment through the front door and neither did he.

 

Karen moved the book around the apartment for a few weeks after, leaving it on any flat surface, but never putting it away. Frank had been absent more than a month before Karen finally put the book back on the shelf. Soon Frank Castle’s last visit was a distant memory, and as the holiday rush washed over the city, Karen found herself smack dab in the middle of a scandal involving a major department store and illegal wage docking. She worked nights almost permanently for almost two weeks, interviewing anonymous tippers and former employees of the company under cover of darkness. She was spending the night at the office, on the floor, putting the finishing touches on her research and getting a final report together when she felt like something was off in the office.

She crawled over to the windows of her office and peeked out. The bullpen beyond was dark, but there was a light on in the break room. Karen squinted through the darkness. The light snapped off and a light by the corner desk switched on. Karen sighed. She would know that silhouette anywhere.

She got up and left her office, picking her way across the floor to the corner desk where Frank was sitting with a mug of coffee and her book.

“Are you here to give me a tip? Or are you just running out of places to get coffee without someone recognizing you?” she asked. Frank looked up at her, leaning back in his chair, squinting at her through a fresh black eye. He opened up the book on the desk in front of him.

“You know libraries exist, right?” 

“How’s that department store scandal shaping up?” Frank asked. He had a habit of totally changing the subject when he didn’t want to talk about something.

“It’s fine. I should be done in a couple of hours, which means the story will run in the morning. Why? Gonna shoot up the place when I’m done with it?” 

Frank looked at her again and she noticed a tight line of stitches on his forehead that were new.

“I’m not interested in those fat cats,” he said. He took another sip of his coffee and started reading. Karen didn’t move. She stood there and stared at him, reclining in the swivel chair, reading her book, drinking her coffee, in her office, like there was nothing wrong with this picture. He didn’t look back at her, refused to let her break his concentration. Karen snorted and stalked back to her office. Karen scrolled through her phone and found the loudest rock playlist she had, crammed her earbuds in her ears and pumped the volume up. She forced herself to forget that Frank was a mere fifteen feet away and dragged her laptop onto the floor so she could start writing her final report.

 

It was a relief to finally hit send. Karen stretched her legs out and stretched her arms over her head. Her back ached and her head throbbed, but she was finished. She scraped all her notes, scattered around her on the floor, into one giant heap in the middle of the room to be dealt with the next day, shut off her laptop, and packed up. She stifled a yawn as she locked up her office and made her way back to where Frank was seated, flipping pages slowly, sipping coffee leisurely, without a care in the world.

“You have to get out now,” Karen said. “I have to lock up. Come on.” 

Frank finished his coffee in one go, snapped the book shut, and left his mug in the sink. He followed Karen out of the office, but they only got three blocks before Karen got fed up. 

“Is there any reason you’re following me?” she asked, spinning on her heel so quickly that they almost collided. Frank still had his nose in the book, baseball cap pulled down so low that his face was in shadow.

“Gotta put the book back,” Frank said. Karen rolled her eyes.

“You know perfectly well that you can just give me the book and skulk off to whatever park bench you’re sleeping on.” 

There was an uncomfortably long pause where Frank suddenly wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Oh my God, please tell me you’re not actually sleeping on a park bench.” 

“I’m not,” Frank said. Karen sighed in relief. “I’m sleeping in an abandoned warehouse by the docks.” 

“Oh god dammit Frank! Why did you tell me that?” Karen cried. She wanted to tear her hair out, she was so exasperated. But instead she just threw her hands up in the air, turned back around and strode back home, not checking to see if Frank was keeping up. When they got to her apartment he held the door open for her and locked it quietly behind him.

Who would have thought that the third time Frank Castle visited her apartment it would be at her unspoken invitation?

 

Karen changed out of her work clothes and shouted at Frank to keep the volume on low if he decided to watch TV. She left out a blanket and a pillow, in case he decided to sleep on her couch, instead of just sitting there brooding or whatever he does in his free time. Then she crawled into bed. The pillows were cool and the sheets slid over her skin, welcoming her to sleep.

Karen had the same nightmare, with one crucial difference. Every time she thought she had woken up, bolting up right in bed, Wesley was there, looming out of every corner of the room, gun raised, pulling the trigger.

“How does it feel, Miss Page?” Wesley asked her. She was sitting up in bed, the barrel of the gun pressed up against her forehead. “How does it feel to be dead?” 

Karen heard the click of the safety being released, she felt the burn of the bullet, and she screamed.

 

“Karen!” 

 

Someone was saying her name. The sound of it was alien to her. She could feel calloused, warm hands on her arms, pinning them to her sides. Her knuckles on her right had were stinging. She could hear someone struggling to breathe and sob and scream at the same time and it took her a few minutes to realize that it’s her.

Karen was awake, for real this time, and Frank was hovering next to her, holding her arms against her sides. A trickle of blood dripped from his nose. Her name sounded alien, she realized, because he was the one saying it. Over and over, quietly, her name sounded strange on his tongue. In a bizarre flash of clarity she realized that he’d never called her anything but ma’am or Miss Page.

“Did I punch you?” 

Her voice came out barely a whisper, tripping over hiccups and gasps for air. Frank rubbed her arms gently and nodded.

“You’ve got a pretty killer right hook, Miss Page,” he said.

“You’re bleeding,” Karen whispered. “Sorry.” 

“I’ve had worse,” Frank said. He shifted so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Karen was grateful because to sit there he had to stop touching her and she felt like she might just break down completely in the face of real human sympathy.

Karen used her bedsheets to wipe off her face while Frank was distracted with catching the blood dripping out of his nose with his sleeve. She managed to get her breathing somewhat under control and she could feel embarrassment creeping up her spine. It was one thing to be plagued by guilty nightmares alone, but in front of someone else, especially someone as stoic as Frank, that was a whole different story.

“Is your nose ok?” she asked quietly, grateful that her voice doesn’t crack.

“Don’t worry about my nose,” Frank said. “What about you?” 

“What about me?” Karen played dumb for as long as possible.

“Don’t be cute. This is the second time I’ve seen you wake up screaming. I didn’t say anything the first time because I was focused on not bleeding on your floor, but I caught one in the face this time and I’d like to know why. If you don’t mind.” 

“I killed someone.” 

The words burst out before she can stop the.

“A little over a year ago. He was Wilson Fisk’s assistant. He kidnapped me and tried to hold me hostage in a warehouse. He brought a gun. I shot him with it.” 

What had the Blacksmith said about Frank before he dropped the friendly-superior-officer act? That he had an uncanny ability to see into someone else’s soul? Karen wished that Frank would stop looking at her like that.

“Jesus, Frank! Say something!” 

“Like what? You killed someone. You protected yourself. You survived and he didn’t. I can’t take your guilt away, Karen. I can’t tell you what you want to hear.” 

“You don’t seriously expect me to believe that you don’t feel guilty about any of the people that you killed,” Karen said.

“I don’t,” Frank said it with such conviction that Karen almost believed him. “The bastards that I put down deserve it. I’m not doing this to stay alive, I’m doing it to keep other people alive.” 

“You give really shitty pep talks,” Karen said. She dragged her hands over her face and looked at Frank closely. He was staring at the wall, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. “And you’re a shit liar too.” 

“What?” 

“You’re lying. You feel guilty. I’ve seen your guilt before and it’s tearing you apart now just as much as it was then. So tell me, Frank, before I demonstrate my killer right hook again, how do you cope with it?” 

“I don’t.” 

“Liar.” 

“I don’t feel guilty about a single one of those bastards!” 

“Liar!” Karen threw her blankets off and got out of bed. She knelt down in front of Frank. His hands were balled into fists on his knees. “Lie to yourself, lie to Daredevil, lie to everyone else, but don’t lie to me.” 

“I feel guilty,” Frank finally said. He looked at her and Karen felt that strange sensation again, like he was staring past all her bravado and pain and fear, right into the core of her soul. “But what difference does that make? They died and I didn’t. They’re not coming back, as better or worse people. I feel guilty, sure, but it takes a monster to kill a monster so what’s the point?” 

“You know what I think?” Karen asked. She reached out and took one of his hands, forcing him to relax his bruised, cut knuckles under her touch. “I think that you’re just a human as I am. I think that the guilt is what makes you human. Even when you think you have nothing else, no love, no family, no friends, no future, you still feel something. You have something in you that knows you’re not a monster. Someone once told me that guilt is a good thing, because it means the job isn’t done yet. I think they were wrong about that. Guilt is a good thing because it means there’s someone who can be saved.” 

Frank gripped her hand tightly through her whole speech. He didn’t say anything when she finished, he didn’t make a sound, but his shoulders were shaking almost imperceptibly.

“If I’m human because I feel guilty about one bad person who tried to hurt me, then you’re human too.” 

Karen pulled Frank to his feet and folded him into her arms. He barely made any sound as he cried, although Karen was certain she was bawling loud enough for the both of him. She knotted her fingers in the heavy fabric of his jacket and she felt him dig his fingers into her shoulders, holding on to her so tightly that she thought he might not let go.

 

Karen didn’t know how long they stood there, supporting each other, but when Frank finally let her go she felt a small seed of emptiness open up in her chest. But she wiped off her face, pretending that she didn’t notice that he was doing the same with his back to her, and smiled at him when he looked over his shoulder at her. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon and the sky in the window was tinted blue again.

“Well,” she said. “I think I’ve had enough of being open hearted for one night. Same time next week?” she asked with a laugh. Frank smiled slightly, but he couldn’t hide the sadness that tinged his features.

“I’d better get going,” he said. Karen nodded and walked him to the door.

“You know, if you ever want to sleep somewhere that’s not a warehouse by the docks my couch is open,” she said. Frank nodded and raised one hand as he walked down the hall. Karen shut the door and locked it. Leaning against it she surveyed her apartment. The couch was messy, the blanket and pillow clearly used. The Jane Austen book sat on the coffee table, tossed there in a rush. Through her bedroom door she could see her messy bed and the imprints their feet had made on her small throw rug.

Karen walked over to the couch and wrapped the blanket around herself. She still had a few hours before she had to be up for work. She sank down onto the couch, tucking her feet under the blanket and nestled into the pillow. She could smell the gun oil, the blood, the grit of the street when she breathed in, and for a second it was like he was still there with her.

She doubted if he would be back. The look on his face has told her enough. She was too close, much closer than he liked. And he was far too dangerous, far too broken for her to be close to. Karen pulled the blanket up over her head and shut her eyes, burning the look he’d given her when he’d confessed his guilt into her mind. They were both far too broken to be any good for each other, she knew, but it didn’t stop the emptiness in her chest from expanding through her lungs. She would probably never see him again.

 

 

A few months later Karen bought the rest of Jane Austen’s novels at a second hand bookstore. Then she lined them all up neatly on the bookshelf. Then, a few weeks after that she finally started reading one. Then another. Then another until the only one she hadn’t read was the one Frank had been so keen on. She carried it around in her purse for a while, leaving it out on tables in coffee shops, but never actually opening it and reading the words it contained. One day, she left it on the table while she was getting her croissant and when she got back it was gone. In it’s place was a yellow sticky note.

“On Loan,” it read, “for one week.” 

Karen put the sticky note in her planner, stuck to the day he said he would return the book. She took a sip of her coffee, looking out the window, trying to quell her excitement.

 

Across the street, pausing next to a parking meter, Frank adjusted his baseball cap and tucked the book inside his jacket. He cast a glance over his shoulder at the coffee shop and saw her, sitting in her chair, carefully placing his note in her planner, smiling to herself. A week isn’t that long, he told himself. Not long at all.


End file.
